


Up In Smoke

by nowhere_dawn_death_phan



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24688711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_dawn_death_phan/pseuds/nowhere_dawn_death_phan
Summary: Owen’s never been a fan of smoking. But he’s also never been one to pass up an opportunity. Especially on a night like this.
Relationships: Owen Harper/Diane Holmes, Owen Harper/Katie Russell
Kudos: 13





	Up In Smoke

Owen Harper had grown up around smoke. He’d never smoked personally, the smell had made him feel sick, but his father had. It had hung off his clothes and the walls of the house and Owen had almost missed it after his dad died, not the smell, but the grate of the lighter, the way the paper caught and flaked and crumbled.  
Most of his girlfriends when he was younger had smoked. He was surprised that he didn’t mind that much. It didn’t bother him, it was what it was. He couldn’t make them stop, and they didn’t try to make him start, so he wasn’t that fussed over it.  
And then he’d become a doctor, and suddenly he was bothered again. The smell would make him shiver, he’d hold his breath as he walked past the smoking canopies outside the hospital, quickening his pace and keeping his eyes on the ground, as if acknowledging that the cigarette was there was as poisonous as breathing it in.

That was how he met her. Head bent, eyes down, he’d walked straight into her without even realising she was there. Katie Russell, smoking a cigarette on her lunch break. She’d laughed, apologised even though it was his fault and brushed him off, adjusting the lapel of his blazer. They’d talked for a few minutes, he’d asked her out for a beer when they were both free, and by the end of the night, the cigarette in her hand didn’t matter anymore.  
That had been nice, the two of them. She didn’t smoke in the house, went out into the garden, and it was easy enough for Owen to pretend he didn’t care until one day he didn’t have to anymore.  
And then the smell of smoke had stopped coming from the cigarettes. It came from the bread left in the toaster because Katie had decided to do five other things in the meantime and forgotten it was there, or the candles she accidentally left burning when she went to bed if Owen was working nights, or the suit - his intended wedding suit - that he’d binned the day after the funeral because even if the smell of smoke washed out he knew the memories wouldn’t. 

Owen Harper walks out of the newsagents, hands in his pockets, heading in the direction of his flat. It isn’t that far of a walk, but his hands are shaking with a sick childish anxiety, like he’s been caught staying up too late on a school night. He doesn’t know why. He’s not scared. Twenty six and he’s never lit a cigarette. He’s not scared. Anticipation? Is that what this is? Excitement? Joy? He doesn’t know.  
He closes the door of his flat behind him when he enters, sits on the edge of his bed, pulls his bin close, just in case this ends up being some colossal disaster. 

Somebody - he thinks it was Tosh, it was probably Tosh, he can’t imagine it being anybody other than Tosh - had once told him that smell was the most powerful trigger of memories out of any of the senses. He doesn’t know if that’s right but he believes it, he knows he does.  
He wants to get one thing clear in his head first, just in case this works, just in case this becomes a habit, just so Tosh and Jack can’t jump to any conclusions when they catch him lighting up under the water tower on a long night.  
This isn’t like the drink. The drink was to distance himself, to push those memories so far back that they didn’t feel like his anymore. This is to bring them closer, to feel closer. This is to make him remember how it felt to lie in a tangle of blankets and limbs, to feel the weight of her head on his shoulder, to hear her laugh again.  
He opens the pack, glad he doesn’t have to roll them himself. His hands are shaking so much he can’t imagine the mess. Katie used to roll them herself, would it make them smell different? Smoke is smoke, isn’t it?  
He lights it, wondering if it’ll taste like the way she used to kiss him, wondering what memories of her will resurface, and takes a drag.

It isn’t Katie that instantly comes to mind when he tastes it in the air, the part of his subconscious that links cigarettes to somebody doesn’t make the connection with Katie, but he remembers instead the spin of rotor blades and a grey cashmere scarf and he falls back against the pillows, crying out in something that might be frustration and might be grief.  
He doesn’t stub the cigarette, just lets it smoulder on his bedside table, and as he tries to come to terms with the fact his one link to Katie only draws him closer to his poor attempt at replacing her, Owen Harper cries.


End file.
